Rune doesn’t exist. Well her fingerprints and DNA sit in countless offices around the world, lost in databases of anonymous persons of interest, but as far as the girl they came from, no records were ever made.

She was born in an old cabin on a lake in Minnesota, far from hospitals and officials of all kinds. Her mom didn’t survive the birth. In fact, her mom was dead when Rune was cut from her uterus. It’s a long story, and kind of a sad one. Although Rune has mixed feelings about it all when she thinks about the circumstances that started her life. Sometimes, usually when things have been slow for a while and she is sitting around waiting for the next job to land in her lap, she lays in bed and sips wine from a plastic cup, preferably with a curly straw (and she’s of course a connoisseur when it comes to the boxed brands), and thinks about what life would have been like if her mom.....hadn’t been possessed by a south-american demon.

That’s pretty much what happened. At eight months pregnant, for whatever reason, a wefuke spirit descended upon her mom, who then proceeded to call her brother (Uncle Seth) in Minnesota and demand to see him. That it was a matter of life and death, and given that Uncle Seth was an Atharim hunter, he actually took the matter seriously.

“Mom” didn’t tell Uncle Seth that she wasn’t coming alone, but it didn’t take long for him to realize something was terribly wrong. Five minutes inside his cabin, mom’s “boyfriend” (who was not Rune’s dad) attacked while “mom” sat back and watched. That night, the sounds of slaughter drowned the crickets. Seth always kept shotguns closeby (and colts and pistols and machetes and...). Even though “mom’s” partner failed to infect a known Atharim, she remained calm at the kitchen table. It took Uncle Seth a few minutes to figure out what Mom was, but even before he did, he knew his sister was already gone.

Then, suddenly Seth had a baby he had no idea what to do with. There was nobody to care for the infant girl, nobody but him. His parents, also Atharim, were already dead. He had no other family, except the Atharim. So he kept the baby and raised her as honestly as possible. By the time Rune was old enough to go to kindergarten, but of course never actually attended a school, she knew monsters were real and Santa was a joke. She learned how to clean a gun before she ever had her first doll, something she bought at a garage-sale at this old stone church across the street from the hotel they were in that week. She also bought this giant, gooey chocolate chip cookie, not the kind spinning in warm-racks in gas stations, but an actual homemade cookie in a ziploc baggy. It was kind of a let-down: the gas-station Otis Spunkmeyers were better. That was also the day she decided she was going to avoid churches at all costs, but more on that later.

Rune did get to go to school, kindof. All with fake identifications. It was all online, but by then the American states had distance learning as options. It was originally meant to help kids being “bullied” …which was a totally lame reason to not go to school. If a bully tried to keep Rune out of school, she’d punch them in the nose and tell them to leave her alone. Anyways, Seth took advantage of the handy development. While they zipped along interstates, Rune had her laptop on her knees and wrote history essays, or scribbled out math problems, or whatever, just like any other kid.

But she wasn’t just like any other kid. Not only was she raised by an American Atharim, but she was psychic. Or maybe she was a medium. She was never quite sure about the difference. What that means is she can see spirits. Not just any spirit, and they’re not at all like in the movies. She’s not a spirit guide. She definitely doesn’t do trances. And she definitely doesn’t know if there’s “another side.” But she gets a feeling of something familiar but also of something completely out of phase with this world. Then, she’ll see one. It’s not quite in her normal vision, but like looking through a highway heat-mirage in the desert. Sometimes they’re wefuke, though it did her and Uncle Seth no good since they couldn’t be killed unless they possessed someone, and who knew when that was going to happen. Sometimes they were ghosts, walking around like they’re unaware they’re dead (think Bruce Willis). Sometimes they were something else. These were spirits that Rune has no clue whether or not they’re dangerous, but its safer to assume they are.

By far the more useful trick than tracking spirits is that she can sense feelings of wrongness. Like if a soul, an actual human soul, expresses a profound and deep emotion, like of rage before a murder or horror during a rape or thrill during a feeding (though it’s questionable if rougarou have souls, its like the emotion’s strength imprints on the spirit world. Rune can follow their footprints like tracks in the snow.

Her full name is Runehilda. Yah, yah. Uncle Seth went through an emo-phase for a while; actually, he’s still kind of emo. So lame. Rune has moods. Sometimes they’re dark and depressed, but she never descends into anything unmanageable, definitely nothing a good hunt can’t cure. Usually she’s quite chipper. Even though she’s pretty much on the edge of her seat all the time, waiting for the world of monsters to just knock on her hotel room door. Uncle Seth gave her his blessing to go to Moscow and make her membership in the Atharim official. So now, at twenty-two years old, she’s on her own, fearless and stoked about Moscow.

At all costs she will avoid going in churches and cemeteries. They are either fraught with powerful emotions or haunted by hovering spirits, both of which nearly overwhelm her. The last time she was in a cemetery, she became so disoriented and confused, she was nearly wasted by a stray chupakabra.

Rune is a fit, physical girl. She's been carrying duffel bags bigger than she was since forever. For almost as long, she's been carrying rucksacks stuffed with supplies: the grunt in her very own little one-woman army. Her hair color changes on a semi-regular basis: about the time she gets tired of the current color combination (or the dye fades). Rune does rock the side-shave though, it must be some of that emo in her blood. She likes pretty things, jewelry and the like, but doesn't go crazy wearing anything that isn't tactical. The less to grab at, the better, she says. So she makes up for it with makeup: heavy lashes, dark eyes, bright colors and red lips. As she tends to be pale from not getting enough direct sun (her lifestyle is pretty night-centric), her style is all the harsher. Only a fool who doesn't know what he's doing would mess with her, otherwise, Rune takes care of herself.

Also, never, ever call her by her full name: Runehilda. Just to be safe.


Edited by Rune Marx, Sep 20 2013, 06:39 PM.

Name: Nadia Sokolov

Age: 23 (Born in 2022)

Strength in Power: 18

Goddess: Hathor

Nadia. In the language of her parent’s in Russia, her name means Hope. Hope that the world will find order. Hope that the natural disasters that shake every corner of the Earth will stop. Hope in themselves. Hope in the future. Hope for their beautifully dark haired infant daughter, born into a world where hope was hard to come by.

When Nadia was only two years old, her father’s job in the Ascendency’s Military had them moved to Dubai to begin diplomatic relationships there. Here, she would spend her childhood. She was brilliant, learning things quicker than the other children, and was soon fluent in not only her native tongue, but English, Arabic, and Swahili which she picked up from the refugees of disasters deeper into Africa’s heart. She excelled in schools and was always ahead in the bases classes. She was a happy child who loved to learn more than anything else in the world.

Due to her father’s outstanding service to the Ascendancy, her father was promoted up the ranks and soon took a government position in the newly formed Dominance V. As such, her family became wealthy and she lived a privileged life, but was wise beyond her years and was always aware of the suffering of the rest of the world around her.

By the time she became a teenager, she began looking for ways to help those around her who were less fortunate. She would sneak out the clothes that she outgrew to people in the city who would see them distributed. After dinner, she would hide leftovers and sneak them out to the people in the streets, as well. She was always looking for something more to do, much to her father’s chagrin. Filled with power, Nickolas Sokolov was the face of the corruption of the new CCD government. To the world, he was a man who commanded control and received it, a man who got things done, and in these times, that was the sort of ruler the land needed. But his passion was not saving the people, it was the paychecks. Nadia’s mother, too, was caught up in their wealth. She wanted what was best for sweet Nadia, and to her that was to become the new age belle, always dressed in Moscow’s latest fashions and being courted by the right sort of men.

At the age of 16, Nadia’s privileged life changed forever. The headaches began over breakfast with her parents. Soon, the fever began to overtake her. For a time, she was able to hide it from her parents. The sickness among teenagers was well known by this time, and she was sure that if daddy found out that his daughter had it, he would use it as a ploy to gain political power.

One evening, she was walking home late. Suddenly, like a flash of light, the sickness overtook her in full strength and she collapsed on the side of the road. There, she was found by an unknown man, beaten, and raped. At least that is what the police report read, and sure enough, 6 weeks later she was found to be with child. Her parents were devastated. How could this happen to THEIR daughter?

Nadia was so deep into her sickness that she was rarely coherent enough to speak. The doctors were not hopeful about Nadia’s survival, much less the baby’s, but when Nadia’s parents made the decision that the child should be aborted, strange things began to happen. Nadia, through her fever, was determined that she would keep the child, but was never conscious to express that desire. The day the abortion was to take place, all the water in the building froze over. No one could explain the cause of it, but they could no longer undergo the procedure and postponed it. When the new date arrived, the doors to Nadia’s room inexplicably sealed themselves closed, allowing no one in. The locks were undone and the door wasn’t tampered with, but still they could find no way to get in. By the third such strange occurrence, they decided that it must be fate and to let mother and baby live or die together. There was nothing more that they could do.

The nurses in the hospital, many of them refugees from African nations seeking refuge and work in a CCD state began whispering in the halls about the strange occurrences by this Nadia girl. “Caller” they called her, which was Nadia in their native Swahili. The caller of strange things. Maybe even demons perhaps. Either way, many of the staff began to fear the disease that plagued Nadia.

The next 6 months were much the same. During the nights, she would moan and sometimes even scream through the fever, but as the hospital staff monitored her and the baby, they lived. In fact, the pregnancy was nearly perfect. In Nadia’s subconscious, all she could think was I must live. Must live. Must live for my baby.

One morning, a nurse came in to check them and to her utter amazement, found Nadia with a tiny baby girl curled against her chest. Both Nadia and her baby looked healthy, and while Nadia looked exhausted, her color was better than it had been any time since she had been admitted. Nadia, looking up at the nurse, smiled and said “Meet Zoe!”

Once returning to her home, though, the tension in the house was high. It had been announced that Nadia had died from the fever rather than the scandal of the bastard child be discovered, so Nickolas made quick work of finding a place for his daughter to be shipped off to. Not Moscow. There were too many people liable to recognize her there. Tokyo? Mumbai? Anywhere in the ever expanding CCD would do. After all, he didn’t want his daughter to die… just be very well hidden.

Finally, it was decided and Nadia and Zoe packed a few small bags and were smuggled out through the night to Prague. There, she has lived, raising her daughter for the last 4 years, working for a company to transfer all of the precious oil out of the Central Dominance and out to the ever growing CCD.

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Continued from: Window Shopping - Moscow City



Add in the cars parked along both sides of the street and everyone else had to muscle their way down the center of Nikolskaya street: actually, the nightmare clogged the entire city. His apartment was barely more than two miles away, but throw on a busy weekend, summertime tourists, and a brief blockade for a Privilege’s motorcade and Jaxen finally made it. Well, close enough. The corner was a couple blocks down yet. If the distant honking from blocked cars in both directions were anything to go by, it might take another half an hour to roll the rest of the way there.

“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he announced to the driver, and waved off the need for him to open the door.

Though past sundown, there were plenty of pedestrians milling about, and a guy in a white-tie tux getting out of a slick town car drew no extra attention than anyone else. To his eyes, the milling tourists stuck out like a sore thumb, but so also did the local elite-- if only for the contrast. Women strode forcefully through the crowd, stilettos expertly maneuvering along cobble stones and dodging slow-moving wayfarers. Straight-faced men were about the same: a silk pocket square here, a sheepskin briefcase there; timepieces, designer glasses. There was a time when the collection would have earned his entire attention, however, now, in the brief moment of emerging from the car and taking in the sights, it was the buildings which Jaxen studied. Signs illuminated the imposing facades, despite being of relatively few floors, they dwarfed a man by sheer monumental comparison. Angular rooflines streaked high overhead, mostly lost to shadow but mashed together from one building to the next. A whiff of steam puffed up between cars marked the location of manholes. While bulges and niches in various corners pointed out the most likely locations for security cameras. Or birds nests. Or both.

With his Wallet secured deep within his jacket, Jaxen strolled along the sidewalks up toward Baccarat, hands idly in his pockets and glancing here and there, mind blank as he absorbed the place. He wasn’t a big guy, which actually worked in his favor when it came to his hobbies, but the cool expression and sharply styled hair projected an image of a guy who was unlikely to swerve first. The darting glances alone shoved one or two out of his path, the rest took a wider berth.

A block later, Jaxen witnessed a guy follow a couple into a second-hand bookshop. It wasn’t obvious, but Jax knew what was going down. He hesitated. The question was, did he follow after and try to salvage what was sure to be a mess, and probably ruin his tie in the process, or go on? Champagne was sure to be waiting, even if Aisha wasn't.

He checked the clasps on his cuff-links and aimed for the door. It was better to be fashionably late anyway.

Continued here: Window Shopping

Once upon a time, huge Soviet-era apartment blocks stood in long, identical rows, housing thousands of low-income factory workers and laborers. Many still existed even in this 'enlightened' era of economic growth and expansion, but some had been knocked down to make room for newer, nicer, more beautiful structures. But, as with all things, money changed hands, companies folded, contracts were lost, and investors moved on, until all that remained were rubble-strewn lots shadowed by the great Garden Ring Road's overpasses and raised highways above.

Years passed, and eventually folks returned to these abandoned lots. Squat-er camps formed, and government funded housing projects were started up and abandoned, leaving stretches of close-packed cookie-cutter houses built by the lowest bidder and never quite finished. But it was a start, and improvements came sporadically as new city planners came and went.

Bulatnikovskaya block was one such area. Cloned housing and huts that ranged somewhere between ramshackle and whatever was a step up from ramshackle, lined the old streets. What was once a soccer field had been re-purposed into a communal garden, and up the block there was even a small open-air market where people sold fresh butchered goat meat, vegetables, salvaged junk and home-made crafts. The only evidence that this little corner of the world was actually a part of the greatest city in the world (so far as the CCD was concerned), was the not-so-distant skyline a public transit system a person could set their watch to.

Few folks who lived in the area could actually be considered land owners (as much as one could be when living in a city), but some folks earned enough to do more then simply rent. Hood was one of them. But rather then landing himself in one of the many 'mostly finished' housing units, he had one of his own built.

Sea-can construction had become rather popular in the 10's and 20's. Entire apartment buildings had been constructed of them. The metal boxes were abundant, cheap, and water-proof. At first glance, Bulatnikovskaya block's newest addition seemed out of place. A pile of sea-cans that were delivered to a run down residential neighborhood rather then one of the not-too distant train yards. Then came the electricians and plumbers, and even a government inspector. Of course, there might have been a greased palm or two to get the ball rolling, but two months after arriving in District I, Hood had a home.

In the months since he moved in, Hood had spent every waking hour spent at home on renovations. Sanding the outer walls of his new home of rust before he could start coating them with rust-protection. Interior finishings would come later, once he was comfortable his new home would weather it's first winter.

Much of the funding to build his new abode came from the Atharim. Beneath the sea-can cabin, another was burried. Excuses for the digging and dropping of the can into the open pit, was that it would serve as a solid foundation for the rest of the structure to sit on top of, and for the most part, folks bought it (or accepted bribes to make sure that part of the building plans were lost from records). That sea-can, hidden beneath the floor, provided access to the old sewers below; a bolt hole to a safe house for any Atharim agents that found themselves in a spot of trouble. The hidden room would also house Hood's personal arsenal, which was, sadly, still a work in progress.

At 0200hrs, Hood sat on the step of his recently finished porch, under the glow of the lone light fixed above the front door. At that late hour, there wasn't much activity on the street, but there were obviously people still awake. Loud music could be heard from coming from one of the houses a ways up the block. The windows were covered in bars and CGI, the door replaced with an expensive metal thing. A drug house. Teenagers and young adults could be seen coming and going all day, but so far they had left him alone and hadn't caused much trouble.

The occasional yelling couple, the distant wail of sirens and the near constant drone of the near by Garden Ring Road. On some level, he was consciously aware of all those sounds, but they were a distant thing. Sitting next to him was a toolbox, a pile of rags, and some oil. After each day's labor, he would spend an hour just sitting on the step, enjoying the cooling evening air as he cleaned and inspected the tools.

Not too far off, the local metro line could be heard coming to a stop at the station. This far out from the city center, their stop was above ground, but the tracks quickly dipped below ground again on either side of the platform. Minutes later, the sound of the train vanished as it went back under ground, and Hood finally packed his tools away.

He shifted to lean against the a post on his porch, and picked up a bottle of Alexander Kieth's beer. An expensive import, but old habits died hard. He brought the bottle to his lips then paused and frowned at it, noticing a moth stuck to the condensation on the lip. A couple huffs and puffs blew the insect clear, then after another moment's hesitation he shrugged and took a swig.

Soon enough a trio of shaggy mutts wandered into the pool of light around his porch, and Hood stared at the three dogs for a long moment. None seemed particularly excited to see him, and just scooted around him onto the porch to lay down or partake from a bucket full of water next to the door.

"I wake up, and there's a single puddle of piss on this deck, the lot of you are getting shaved and baths." The three mutts glanced at him. They didn't understand him; they recognized some Russian, unsurprisingly, but English was beyond them still. More likely, they were trying to decide if he had mentioned anything about food. He stared at the largest of the three, then just sighed and stood up, collecting his tool box and setting the empty bottle of beer on the step. Someone would collect it by morning to recycle it.

The dogs were a explainable but welcome addition to his new home. They had just shown up one day and started living on his deck. They'd leave in the morning on the metro, heading into town where they could beg and scavenge for scraps of food, then return at night to sleep there. They stayed out of his way, and had proven themselves as an efficient burglar-deterrent, so he put water out for them, sometimes some food, and generally put up with them. When winter came, he'd have to think of some sort of more permanent arrangements.

Hood went inside, stopping in the doorway long enough to toss the three strays some leftovers. The interior of his stylish new home was still fairly spartan. Plywood served as the floor, and a wooden frame skirted the walls. Eventually, drywall and insulation would be installed. The tool box was put away, the door closed and locked, and he did his rounds to make sure the windows were secure. He wasn't worried about people trying to break in. Hell, let them try it. He just didn't want to have to explain to the police why had he killed someone.

A quick trip to the fridge found another bottle of beer in his hand, and he popped the cap just as the phone rang. He frowned briefly; there weren't many who had his number, but those few knew he would still be awake at so late an hour. It would either be his day job, or his night. One payed over the counter, and the other was the reason why he had a tunnel into the sewer under his house.

He let it ring a few times, then finally answered in fluent Russian. "White."


"Sorry for calling so late..."
Hood rolled his eyes and took a sip of beer. It was the over-the-counter sort of work then.

"Don't worry, you knew full well I'd be awake. What's the tasking?"


The man on the other end of the phone chuckled, "If you had a Wallet, I could just forward it to you you know. You really should get with the times."


"Yeah well, prefer doing things the old fashioned way. What're the particulars? I'll come in to the office in the morning for the packet."
Another sip of beer then he set it aside to take up a pen and line up a pad of paper.

"There is a grand opening of the the Baccarat Mansion in a few days. Lots of high society types will be in town for it, and some are travelling under the radar. Without their usual entourage or bodyguards. There are a few parties requesting our operatives, and you're one of our top guys, so you will get first dibs."


Hood nodded, and noted down the relevant details his boss had to offer over the next few minutes. This could well work out to his advantage. Barely five minutes after he hung up, the phone rang again. He made this one wait a few rings too, sipping his beer. It was already getting warm because of these bastards and their long-winded phone conversations. This time, he answered in Arabic. The conversation was shorter, and held no surprises for him. They spoke in code, of course; innocuous, inane chatter. It was a long distance phone call, from a 'cousin' in Dominance III, talking about family and the like.

He scribbled down the important points, and knew which of the high-profile visitors he would choose to serve as bodyguard. An Atharim....were they investors? Owners? The particulars of their organization still eluded him on the finer points, but they did good, so he hadn't been too interested in poking around too deeply.

He'd probably have to buy a suit. A nice suit, anyway...he had suits, but nothing quite fancy enough for something like this. And of course, a new suit meant a new shoulder holster. So at least there was something interesting to be done tomorrow.


Edited by Hood, Jul 27 2013, 06:45 PM.

For days he studied the 5 tombs he bought, 4 of the volumes proved worthless, they gave him little more knowledge than he already had. The 5th however was different, at the time he knew not why he choose it, it was a "gut feeling", one of those things he knew not to ignore. The book was about ancient scrimshaw. He knew much of scrimshaw, being a sailor his whole life and had a massive collection dating back to the beginning of his family. AS he read, he knew of the superstitions that scrimshaw was made for charms to ward off a host of events, but one sentence stood out. "The art of scrimshaw is just that, art. The power of scrimshaw comes from material, from the elements and from within". He know what was meant by the elements, the material was easy to figure, but what does it mean "from within". He must study this, he must learn this and he can't do at home, he must remain in Moscow where there is more knowledge to be found.

Disguised in old clothes and a tattered cloak, he walks with his full stature using a worn but sturdy a walking stick. He is not alone, dressed the same he is accompanied by his 1st mate. Together they enter the underground.

The first encounter was the smell. The smell of unwashed bodies, vomit, alcohol, sewage and death. Bodies were scattered everywhere, it was hard to tell who was dead and who was alive. A few approached, them, a small woman ragged and well used was waved off, a beggar was more aggressive and was left with a crushed chest. descending to the lower level's was like a maze, but a lifetime a navigation proved it easy to map. After 3 level's there was no one to be seen, yet they went further. 3 more levels til the found what they was looking for. A series of rooms offset from the main tunnels, the rooms were dusty and not even animal tracks showed on the floor. The rooms linkage to the tunnel was a late addition, giving a thought to Manix this was someone's bomb shelter years ago. Searching the complex he finds 5 rooms, a common room, a place to prepare food, some type of restroom, a private bedroom and a bunk house. Searching the the each room in detail he finds the door in the common room leading up to the outside world some 70 feet above.
climbing the stairs when enters a basement of a ancient structure. well build but long abandoned, he smiles. His First Mate saw the smile and sighed, he knew that look.

Returning to the ship he quickly issues orders, keeping 2 of his better craftsmen and 2 deck hands and his cargo master he sends his ship, with the 1st mate at the helm back to the Isle of Man to retrieve all he possesses and to deliver the documents needed to turn control of his share of the fishing empire to his cousin. Most important, is the request to his father to collect all scrimshaw and send it to him in Moscow, even those buried in the family tombs. His Father knew of his studies, and suspected more, so Manix prayed his Father would understand and do all the he has asked.

Watching his ship sail off, he issues further orders, to the Cargo Master he sends to purchase the rundown home in Manix's name, sending a deck hand with em for protection. Manix with the 2 craftsman and final deck hand he returns to the home and the underground complex, to store supplies. First mission, He sends Junns (master craftsman) with Steven (deckhand) into the tunnels. The mission, map the tunnels and find a connection to water and seawater and get it piped into the complex. Jackson (Jr. Craftsman) is set to assess what is needed to get this complex up and running, without the knowledge of the CCD.

Satisfied his orders will be followed, he takes on a disguise of lower class citizen to roam the streets and absorb the culture.

**closed and booked**


Edited by Manix, Sep 3 2016, 02:37 PM.

Thalia Averill Milton

Born to privileged parents in DVII some twenty-four years ago.

Her mother often declared she had been born facing backwards; that she was more concerned with antiquity than the brightness of the future. Such an odd child. Thalia remembers those words like a punctuation mark throughout her childhood, but with a faintly nostalgic pleasantness rather than dismay. An odd child indeed, but perhaps only by virtue of her context.

Thalia was not stupid, but she was not a focussed child either; much to the chagrin of parents who valued a tight regimen of schooling, were both successful in their respective fields, and had already been blessed with older daughter, Aylin. Perfect Aylin. Oddly enough, despite their very polar differences, Thalia adored her older sister; her quiet diligence, her precision and care. Her cleverness.

Thalia liked to draw, and to read – though books were not so sacred as to escape the markings of her pencil. She was an idler, a daydreamer; queen of childhood castles and purveyor of fantastical stories. Her parents did not discourage her, exactly, but they did try to impress upon her the importance of education, of hard work, and of success. It wasn’t until years later that Thalia understood why they had been concerned. It isn't something she admits to herself these days.

By the time she reached school, her interests grew to encompass both literature and history, which were academic enough subjects to satisfy her parents. Plus, she quickly found that being  discovered with her nose in a textbook left her less likely be disturbed than if she was found drawing. She did not grow out of it, exactly, so much as she learnt to slide herself within the ideals of her parents expectations. Study first, idle later. She kept reams of sketchbooks, but by the time she entered adolescence had stopped trying to garner approval for her scribblings anyway. Truthfully she was not interested in the attention – she did not do it to please an audience; it was a compulsion, an obsession. A necessity.

At university, much to her parents diligently concealed disappointment, she chose to study history. It was something of a compromise, since she didn’t actually want to study for a degree at all. By then Aylin was studying to become a psychiatrist at Moscow State, so it was natural for Thalia to fly the nest in that direction. It seemed a grand adventure, and by the time the plane landed she’d half convinced herself it was what she wanted. Moscow awed her; the mix of new and old, the endless clash of ancient and stark beauty. She supposed she’d been sheltered up to then; not that her parents had been the coddling sort, but there had still been carefully wrought parameters to her freedoms. The sudden breadth of independence barely phased her, even when she became quite lost and almost didn’t make it to the university.    

The fairy-tale she painted in her mind didn't end well. Despite a sometimes sharp mind, Thalia was too lacking in discipline to excel in her studies. She would spend hours in libraries, only to emerge without so much as a single written note. Then, when the time came to compose essays, she would instead find herself doodling in the margins of the pages, or staring vacuously at windows. Or walls. The reading interested her, the learning interested her -   but only in the way of a collector. She hoarded the knowledge but lacked the motivation to do anything with it. Well, nothing relevant to her degree, anyway, and though she persevered for the sake of her parents (for the money they had plied into her fees, and the strings they had pulled to get her a place) it was no time at all before her grades slipped. Mere months.          

And then she got sick.

Well, truth told, it had come and gone over the months since she left DVII, only to  culminate severly during her first semester. Four days of absence and ignored phonecalls passed before Aylin banged on the door to Thalia’s dorm room, and found her sweating drowsily in bed, surrounded by dozens of scrumpled up pieces of paper. Flu, Thalia insisted. But Aylin was pale. Especially when she smoothed out a few of those crumpled pages.

Thalia never knew what Aylin told their parents. Drink, maybe. Drugs. Her parents wanted her home, of course, but they trusted their reliable, eternally sensible eldest daughter. It was just as well they did, for Thalia’s sake; because even she realised, somewhere amid her fevered brain, that girls died from the Sickness. And not just some of them; most of them. That or they disappeared. Aylin knew, because she had seen it, and without her intervention Thalia would have numbered among one or other of those fatal statistics – she knew that without even knowing how she knew it.

She survived. Thanks to Aylin, thanks to the screwed up drawings scattered about her bed that day – thanks to a lineage of screwed up drawings, in truth –  and thanks to a Russian called Yana who had been coolly convinced Thalia was a demon. Months of fugue followed.  Thalia never went back to her course, and used the remaining of her parent’s funding to rent a small studio apartment. She went to great pains to forget the clutches of the Sickness, and to forget the psychiatric unit where Aylin interned. But most of all she forgot the face she had been sketching for years; forgot that, as it turned out, the face belonged to a real woman.    

There were worse places to recover than the heart of the new world, and Thalia adapted. With no job and no qualification, it was natural to turn to the one thing she was good at. Her first major sale was the portrait of a woman surrounded by the ethereal glow of sunrise; except, in Thalia’s mind, it was not the sun at all, but the woman. It was bought by a religious zealot, who for obvious reasons believed it a religious painting, and from there her reputation trickled steadily upwards. Six years later her apartment is bigger and she rents a small studio. Thalia’s art sells well and she is rarely without commission, but her income can be erratic. The majority of her sold work consists of paintings, though she still keeps piles of sketchbooks and sometimes does portrait commissions. She specialises in realism, at least in style. Plenty of her work features the abstract and fantastical, and much of it has an ethereal quality that has become her signature.

-*-

Her temperament is full of jagged edges and contradictions, like a thousand souls stuffed in one body. She’s sensory, compelled by beauty and typically indulgent to her own whims. Intuition forms a greater part of her rationale, not that she’s incapable of logical thought so much as she’s learnt the value of trusting her instincts. For the most part she’s laid-back and adapts easily; quite content to watch things unfold naturally and to be swept alongside for the ride. In fact her sense of calm is infectious, or at least the way she is self-assured without the overbearing of arrogance. She’s the kind of person who gives the distinct impression they know what they’re doing, even when out of their depth,  though composure should not be confused with being sensible, especially if pushed beyond the bounds of her integrity; a point at which she is often misjudged (despite the similarities in appearance, she is not her level-headed sister).

There are times when cracks mar the surface of the Thalia she recognises as herself; when it feels like a great big thumb presses down on her mind, and the pressure of it is crushing. In these moods she’s either unfathomably distant or grievously short-tempered, hardly like herself at all. Usually it’s the prelude to a project, to clear her head. Even in her best moods it isn’t unusual for Thalia to spend great gaping breaches of time alone, lost in work or study, though she’s not a loner by nature. She doesn’t spend much time socialising with other artists, perhaps because – although it’s an intrinsic part of her life – she does not define herself by it. Otherwise her haunts are as varied as her fleeting interests, and she isn’t especially selective of her company – depending on the whim of the day. Her obsessions sometimes include people, though she tends to form no lasting attachments. It’s a big city, after all.

She's grown to have little true fear – at least for her safety. When her survival depends on it, Thalia finds a way to defend herself. A way that makes her feel like a burning sun, so sweet and alive and dangerous. She side-steps the memory of these moments, just as she side-steps the other anomalies in her life. Thalia hears lots of things; she might be classed as eccentric, but she knows not to advertise  some forms of peculiarities.  

Desc: Brown hair worn long to the waist, wavy and haloed with frizz. 5'2''. Porcelain pale and on the delicate side of plain. Naturally expressive with wide grey eyes. Fond of jewellery – fond of anything beautiful, really – though she tends to dress simply. A mural of tattoos decorate her back, the main feature of which is a woman in the art nouveau style, surrounded by poppies.

The Older man enters the this "place of enlightenment". small in stature, humped over with just a thin cane for support he glances around the room. Wondering **is there people to help and do I want their help"**. He slowly wonders the room scanning seemingly at random, but knowing exactly what he wants. He is new to the city but has already heard what is in the heart of the center of knowledge, he dare not use his magic.

Finally a young clerk approaches "good day sir, may I help you". The old man ponders for a minute then replies "I am looking for Celtic lore" "that is quite a topic, do u wish to read or purchase?" the clerk responds, the old man remains silent. Finally the young clerk leads the older man to a back row of dusty tombs. "not many are interested in this old of lore anymore it is refreshing to find a scholar in this day and age." The Old man remains quiet and carefully studies each tomb. The disciplined young clerk never leaves the side of the old man. Finally the old man points to 5 volumes and says "these is wish to buy". The young man quickly gathers the tombs and having dealt with many eccentric scholars before does not blink an eye. from under the old cloak of the old man he produce his "wallet" the new electronic device of the time. After the payment the young clerk wraps each tomb in a leather cloth and binds them neatly. Taking the package the old man leaves with out a word. After he leaves 3 men clothed in black step out of the shadows, they say nothing only nod to each other. After a short time One man in black leaves and looks up and down the street, the old man could not have gone far, but is no where in site. After a brief search he puts the old man out of his mind, there is rumor of a wealthy young Fishing tycoon in town whose sister had died of the pandemic.

Exiting the shop the old man quickly turns into an alley, at the back of the ally he turns again at each turns he becomes a little taller and a little younger finally turning back onto the street he appears as he normally does, a young man of 27 in a tee-shirt and sailor dungarees. The young man wheres a back pack now with a distinct bulge. Having found some old tombs he did not already own he headed back to the wharf, where his ship was docked. He planned on staying for a small time but trusted no hotels Moscow. He may appear a ship-rat, many would not guess he is the heir to the wealthiest family in Ireland. Silently he wondered if he would go unnoticed by the powers that be or if he would have to dress up and put on his dog and pony show.

Manix Lir (Dead)

Age: 27
Origin: Ireland

Occupation : Fishing boat captain and Naval Merchant, Son of the Wealthy Larson Lir'. His Family has been in the fishing and trading business for as long as their family has existed.


Psychological description: On the Boat he is all business, very Disciplined and expects the same from the crew. On Shore he is isolated, an introvert. Prone to disguises and walking the wharf. Among family and shipmates he transforms into a outgoing prankster known for practical jokes and throwing the best private parties. As his family before him he believes in the old Celtic Gods, worshiping Manannan Mac Lir, God of the Sea. His time on land is numbing his sense of humor as the true facts of his sister death and he lived thru, weighs heavily on him.


Physical description: He is of medium size 5'11" with a muscular frame. He keeps well groomed, stylish hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He carries many Celtic Tattoo ruins, handed down for generations. Unless dressing for the occasion (disguised as beggar or to meet the Ascendancy) he'll remain in dungarees and t-shirt.


Powers &amp; supernatural powers: He has control over the wind, stronger control over the water. His time and situations, at sea, has allowed him to discover how to heal and form masks of power instead of the usual disguises used by the mundane. He is used to be weaker when on land and for some reason he does not understand he had to be in contact with some type of water to do these magic gifts from his God. A fashioned water flask rest on his belt that carried the water of his home. This flask had been "warped" during a power burst. allowing him to be as strong on land as at sea. The flask is always with him even though he has broken his self imposed barrier.


Current strength level: 40
Potential strength level: 40


Are you a reborn god?: Manannan Mac Lir, Celtic God of the Sea, tho refuses to believe in "reborn Gods".


Biography: He was born in 2020 and as family tradition dictated he was born on the sea. From birth he was taught about the seas and about the Celtic Gods the family still worshiped. He was 6 years old when he first went out on the sea, but this amazing event was marred by his return to find out his 15 year old sister had died from the mysterious pandemic sweeping the world.

Growing up he learned all the back streets of almost every port in the Eastern world and was able to speak , dress and disguise to almost any culture. He also learned the fighting skills of each nation he visited, with and without weapons, as well as being an elite Viking (Lir' Family Special Forces) He used this skill in his teen years to gather information for his father, which often meant using his new found fighting skills to help the family to come into the wealth and power they enjoy today. At the age of 16, off the Indian shore a sudden storm came up, a storm of the century. Every storm in his life he had rode it out on the bow of the ship soaking in rain and wind, this one was different. Fear struck him, he could hear a voice in the wind, he ran below deck but something drew him out. The ship heaved and start to list, throwing out his hands he screamed as loud as he could. He woke the next morning the storm had passed as quickly as it started. When they returned home a week later, he became very ill. Feverish with wild dreams his family feared the loss of another child. He survived, but he felt different. Something had changed.

It took many weeks before he realized he could "feel" the Sea, no matter where he was. He could feel the tides, the waves the storms and life flowing within the waters. The longer away from water he would feel sick, like that fist illness, so he made sure he kept close to the sea he loved. He began to use the "feel" of the sea to control its motion. tides and channels sped his fleets along, he learned how tame the waves, and to calm the wind, though he had less success with this. At 22 he saw for the first time the flow from his hands to the water and he could see the colors and what looked like weaves in rug. He practiced constantly, learning there was 5 "colors" he could control to one degree or another.

The next few years was spend working the colors and weaving different types of rugs. He found some colors were brighter than others, blue and red being his brightest. He began to associate the colors with elements and while on shore tied to master fire. On land he had no magic. At first he had to be in contact with some type of water, any water, but had to be on his person, he broke that barrier at age 26. This allowed him to use the magic anywhere, but was still weaker away from the sea. He carried a flask of sea water everywhere he went, even tho fresh water would allow him to work magic as well. He learned the blending of colors did different magic, water tempered fire and allowed precise control.

His greatest discovery was at sea. He was using the magic to calm the swells that threatened to sink his fishing vessel, when a deck hand was knock over striking his head. While keeping his magic focused on the waves he sent a second wave of magic to the sailor. He could feel the water in his body, the heat in his blood, and the earth in his bones, water was building in the brain of the sailor crushing the brain, dissipating the water he calmed the heart and drew the blood from the brain back to the veins, there was a crack in the skull he mended, then withdrew. He was exhausted but still had the magic going to the waves, on his knees he passed out. Later when he woke, he was on a strange ship, when he passed out the sea attacked the fishing vessel and sank it. The deck hand who with him was completely healed, but 7 souls was lost. Bed Ridden for 7 days he learned that though he could do much there was limits and consequences to the magic. he continues to learn his healing arts, he would heal the most minor cuts to the worst of broken bones. Learning to wield the power inside the body with exact precision.

He experimented carefully, knowing now the magic nearly burned him alive, more than once, he focused on mastering what he had already learned. He could control the seas, he could heal, he could use the wind to hear at long distances what others say, he could also use that wind as a shield. He knew how to use the offensive magic, fire to burn, wind to push or bind, and worst of all how to boil the living water inside a body, but the more magic he used the more rest he needed after words. Now at 27 he continues to use his disguises and knowledge of many cultures to gain information and he has once again began to learn new magic and has made it his mission to find the reason his sister died and he lived. All his ill gotten information leads to one point, he needs to go to Moscow, to follow the rumors of other magic users, but first he must find more of the old Celtic lore. All he and his family, for generations had collected he had learned inside and out and he knew he was missing something in his magic. He was able to use the 5 elements but he found an odd reference to a 6th element used in magic. the Answers had to lie in Moscow.


Edited by Manix, Oct 13 2016, 08:10 PM.

As much as Jax hated the idea of going to Mumbai as a kid, something happened while he was there all those years ago. Probably had something to do with the timing; he had been a red-blooded sixteen year old at the time after all. The tragedy which occurred still haunted him to this day. An unyielding horror. One that crept up at the oddest of times and pretty much confiscated every ounce of his thoughts, at least for a good while. It had the power to stir him from a good night's sleep; or likewise help with a good night’s sleep.

That's right. He developed a thing for Indian women. God help him.

Such was how he came to be in this tragic set of circumstances: kept prisoner by the dark-haired exotic still asleep in the other room. They were like cats. Call and call and call and you're ignored. Then for inexplicable reasons, you can't peel the paws away. Actually, that wasn't so bad. But a bit of understanding as to what went on behind those fluttering black lashes would really help out.

A swig of coffee later, and Jaxen was powering up his Wallet. That of course being the brand name for the tech he carried at all times, the device which stored, well, everything. It was about the size of an old-fashioned billfold, which were still carried around by the 'regular joes' of the world. While the decryption programs were running, a glance out the windows revealed the sprawling skyline of Moscow City, the modern metropolis of skyscrapers in the business district a couple miles west of the Kremlin. The top of one such building being the location of his apartment. The glance also revealed the time: a sunny mid-morning. A fact which the Wallet confirmed-- now that it was awake. 10:45 AM; partly cloudy It was going to take a while to get used to the time change. It was almost midnight in California-time.

In the next room, he heard the sounds of the shower start. Which meant Aisha was up. He smirked for a second, wondering if he should put on pants or something. But the idea was forgotten by the time the electronic glow of the Wallet brought him back to the present.

First things first. Mail. He wasn't particularly fond of it, but it was a necessary evil in life. A quick swipe across the touchpad threw a larger version of the Wallet screen's contents in midair off to the right. He briefly glanced at the list of people awaiting contact and quickly returned attention back to the main screen. Nothing world-ending; they could wait. Market updates came next, even though he really didn't care about them. Jaxen was a small fish in a large pond when it came to the stock markets. Still, another swipe threw that image to the air off to the left. He pulled up his favorite tech news channel next, and sent it hovering to the field of view below the mail, sound muted for now; the shower was still running. Finally, a proper scene set, he pulled up the latest news about inner Moscow happenings, specifically the section on the Kremlin district, and started scanning for anything of note.

That's when he saw it. Baccarat Maison. The famous Parisian crystal maker opened a second mansion location. Out of the whole world, they chose Moscow. Out of all of Moscow, they landed on Nikolskaya street. Which was an excellent location. Jax needed a warm up before hitting the main event--the one that drew him back to Moscow in the first place.

A flick, and the Baccarat website overlaid the tickertape scroll of stocks. The place was opened recently. Three main floors. A show room filled the main level and a private residence sprawled the two floors above. Living quarters for a name Jaxen didn’t recognize: then again, he’d been out of touch for a while. Though clearly it'd have to be someone with ties to the Baccarat fortune. Who else would live there? The building itself was hundreds of years old, like every other structure on Nikolskaya street, which meant architects, construction crews, utilities upgrade, security installations, and Custody permits for the move-in: all the good stuff; all easily hackable.

He downed another swig of coffee as the rain of water silenced in the distance. He probably had a good twenty minutes before Aisha strolled out in search of coffee--assuming she was like every other woman on the planet. Therefore, he had plenty of time to work. At least to figure out which security system was installed. Though to do so quickly was going to require a keyboard, such as the laser outline the Wallet projected on the table in front of him. He had a full-sized system in an office for real research downstairs. But this was just messing around. He was still in his briefs for gods sake. More importantly, he was still waiting on breakfast to show up.

Completely focused on the task at hand, Jaxen never heard the soft-footed Aisha come in. Until she was practically standing right behind him.

“What are you doing?” She asked. He nearly jumped out of his shorts.

A rapidly punched keycode and pounding heartbeat later and all five screens collapsed simultaneously from midair. The view out the windows returned to his line of sight.

Jax twisted in time to see a surprised look cross Aisha’s face, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t seen anything. He leaned back nonchalantly, and ran a hand across his untamed hair.

“Not much, just getting a feel for what I’ve been missing lately.” He grinned and pat his knee as though summoning her. She looked amused by the idea, but tightened the belt on the robe she must have found in the bath and sauntered over to the windows instead. Her hair was wet from the recent shower and pulled back into a tight, jet-black bun to keep water from dripping down her back. Though clearly the concept wasn’t foolproof. The robe was sticking to the curves of her spine here and there. Her slim body seemed to drown in the robe otherwise meant for him. Not that he was a big guy, but by comparison.

“Beautiful view,” she commented, having only seen its nighttime parallel.
“Yep.” He answered playfully.

She turned, a coy smile parting her lips ever so slightly, greatly darkening the glint in her eyes. Yep. This was a problem. Such that when she sauntered back and swiped the hibernating Wallet from the table, he couldn’t bring himself to snatch it back from her. No more than feigning a playful attempt anyhow.

She powered it up, but Jax reached for his coffee cup without worry while she perused his recent log. That keycode decimated any trace of recent activity he’d prefer to remain private. Such was how she came across the Baccarat website.

“This is the Parisian crystal!” She exclaimed with that same breathless accent that pretty much steamrolled him last night.

“Oh? You’re a fan?” He replied.

She nodded quietly in answer, blinking in wonder at image after image of their stunning works of art just a few minutes away.

“There’s a thing going on tomorrow night,” he came close to retrieve the Wallet, catching her eye as he did, “I was thinking about going. But sadly, I don’t have a date.”

She smirked, “I’ll have to get something else to wear.”

Jax set the Wallet out of reach and hovered over her chair, not so subtly getting a glance down his robe folded ever-so loosely across her chest. She laughed. “Then you better get on that,” he whispered in her ear, pulling the belt as he did.

Jax was the youngest kid in a modern, "mixed" Muscovite family. He had seven siblings. The oldest of which was the only full-blooded relative. The rest were the result of his mother's and father's various re-marriages, one adoption (a sister named Zoey), and one "accident" (the accident being him). It varies depending on who tells the story, but the deep roots of familiar passions between his parents warped sensibility long enough for one last romp together, and nine months later came into this world bouncing baby Jaxen.

Suffice to say, life in the Marveet estate was cramped. One would think twelve bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, two pools, and a twenty-car garage would be enough square footage. Think again. Jax was constantly out "getting fresh air" throughout his youth. To which he frequently rolled his eyes when it was pointed out that nightclubs were hardly refreshing. What can a guy say? One man's fog-lamps is another man's sunrise. Eventually, Jax gave up arguing, shrugged indifferently and went back to doing what he always did. Which was pretty much anything he wanted.

He was threatened with military school at sixteen. As appealing as life as a CCD henchman sounded, Jax talked his way into boarding school instead. Hardly the way he'd have things turned out, but still. Seriously. Mumbai? Stuck in the jungle? Monkeys? Shy women? But, there were worse places than the capital of DIII--he was almost stuck in London.

Like some of the other CCD capitals, Mumbai was a marvel for tourists. And where there were crowds, pickpockets circled like vultures. Eventually, everyone was a target for a pickpocket, Jaxen included. Though he was more annoyed with replacing the identity cards in his wallet than losing anything else--his bank accounts were too well encrypted to really clean them out. But the first time he actually saw a swift hand glide smoothly in and out of a jacket pocket, well, he blinked in awe. The bulbous old man who was robbed had no idea he'd been ripped off. After that, Jax started to pay more attention. Over the next few weeks he determined there were really three main ways to rob a man. The first was the most obvious. Stroll up somewhere isolated, threaten with a weapon, and demand valuables. Boring. Any crackhead can pull that off. The second way involved a team working together on some con. They distract and disorient the target, and the would-be good samaritans are in and out of a bag, purse, or pocket like nothing happened. Which took way too much coordination. And was also boring.

The most challenging was by far the famous sleight-of-hand. Practicing the art wasn't so hard: deceit, misdirection, distraction. Whatever. The real difficulty was working up the guts to do it for the first time. His whole life, society said stealing was wrong. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't. Who can say? But mankind is strange, after all. Stick two guys in an elevator and they'll stand as far apart as possible. Shove ten guys in an elevator, and nobody pays attention to anything. Bump shoulders? A quick "sorry bro," and its shrugged off. Jax had a dozen such chances before he ever brought himself to go through with it for the first time.

He was at a rave. Nightclub of course. Halloween night. He'd drank less than his usual, and kept a sharp eye out for would-be targets. Would it be the glittering fairy? She had a small card-case tucked in her tights against her thigh. How about Dracula? He kept a cigarette lighter and a wallet inside his cape. That's when he spotted them. Turns out, the would-be target was a nerdy 'american' tourist. The man was actually Japanese, but was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with an old-fashioned digital camera slung around his neck with a fanny-pack wrapped low on his lips. Pretty good dancer too. And he was surrounded by a group of friends who obviously all came together. It was too perfect.

Jaxen, himself dressed as a pilot, slid amongst the group pounding the dance floor. Nobody noticed the newcomer, except the girl he ended up alongside. Another fairy. Or maybe a Tinkerbell? Ah well they all looked the same. He made his way alongside the man with the fanny pack, which obviously had something valuable inside, but there was no way to tell what it was. Sat-phone? Maybe? Didn't matter.

Heart pounding, Jax accidentally bumped into the guy's hip. While one hand stabilized them both from staggering out of the way, his other deftly unzipped the fanny pack, retrieved the first thing he found, and shoved it in his pocket. The Japanese-Hawaiian tourist backed away, holding his hands up and Jax's heart leaped into his throat. Everything led up to this moment. Then the guy apologized for the run-in, turned and started dancing once more. Jaxen grinned a devilish grin, took the apology, and decided to take off in favor of finding a toilet.

Adrenaline pumping his veins, he slipped his hand in his pocket as he strode away. It was a wallet. He got away with it. Nobody was coming to kill him. He grinned at the prize in his hand, feeling flushed and ecstatic, and glanced over his shoulder. Hawaiian shirt was tearing it up, oblivious that anything had happened. A second later, Jax returned, tapped the guy on the back and offered the wallet.
"Uh, you dropped this brother!" He yelled over the music. The guy gasped and started thanking him with sloshed, but sincere, gratitude.

"No problem!" Jax replied and took off.

After that, he was hooked.

He suddenly took on a surprising interest in electronics, programming and surveillance--much to his family's surprise. But two years in Mumbai was bound to change anyone, even a rebel like Jaxen. Right?

Ten years later, Jaxen had quite the resume. Museum jewels were the first on his bucket-list. They were small and easily hidden away. Good things to practice on. He worked his way up to a Cezanne worth $5 million. Then getting into the Bank of Zurich. Emperor Maximilian's coronation sword came home after that. The Tower of London was a bit of a challenge, but absolutely worth it. By the time he touched-down back in Moscow, the call of the Kremlin was pounding in his ears: the Everest on his horizon.

---

Occupation : Uh, being the youngest in a Central Dominance billionaire family, Jax doesn't have much in the way of an official job. Just hobbies. The primary of which being a thief.

Psychological description: Jax is a light-hearted guy. Thrill, competition and challenge gets him going in the morning. That, and, strong coffee.

Physical description: About 5'11" - he doesn't stand out in a crowd; unless you count dashing good looks, of course. His "jobs" are pretty physically demanding, as he works alone rather than in a part of a team, therefore he's in good shape. He's the kind of guy who can repel and skydive, and is pretty proud of his fastest time rounding the Moscow Garden Ring in less than 6 minutes. In a $400,000 McLaren Spider.

Powers &amp; supernatural powers: No supernatural powers. Just a normal-bloke. With a fast hand, quick eyes, charming tongue and as a few lady-friends have described, "magic fingers."


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 3 2018, 10:01 PM.